‘Giuseppe is a docker at Porto Vittorio Emanuele.’ Jožef placed an arm round the Italian’s shoulder as he spoke. ‘He’s Italian but his mother was Slovenian, so he helps us.’

Giuseppe spoke. He sounded as if he was arguing with himself, emphasising some point or other by hitting an open hand with his fist.

‘He’s explaining that his job is to help prepare ships for their departure, making sure the cargo and all the supplies are loaded. On Monday he was allocated to a South African ship, the MV Ankia, which is due to set sail for Durban on Friday,’ said Marija.

Giuseppe stopped her and spoke again.

‘He says he’s the foreman on this job, and yesterday the master took him into his cabin and asked him if he spoke German, which he does – a little. He said he’d agreed to take some passengers from Trieste to South Africa but they didn’t have any paperwork. He knew he was breaking the law but he’d been offered a lot of money and now he was worried about how he was going to get them on board, especially as the authorities were looking for them.’

‘Did he say who these passengers are?’

Marija translated for Giuseppe. ‘He’s not sure, but he thinks they’re Germans or something to do with Germany. The master said that if Giuseppe could find a way to smuggle them on board, he’d reward him very generously. Before he left the port this evening, the master gave him the address of where the passengers are – it’s on Viale Miramare, which is between here and Porto Vittorio Emanuele. His instructions are to go to the building at first light tomorrow morning and discuss with them how he’s going to get them on board: he said they only speak German or English. Giuseppe speaks no English.’

‘He definitely mentioned English, did he?’

‘Yes, he’s sure of that.’

‘Good,’ said Edvard. ‘So we have the address of where the bastards are hiding. Now we just need to hear from Berlin.’

They heard from Berlin in the early hours of the Thursday morning, long before the sun rose over the city and began to glint off the Gulf of Trieste, long before the first shouts of the workers and clashes of metal disturbed the peace of the port and even longer before the curtains of Trieste were drawn and yellowy lights illuminated the homes of its stirring population.

When Edvard entered the room where Hanne and Prince were asleep on a sofa, he told them it was time to get dressed, and dropped two Beretta semi-automatic pistols at their feet.

Downstairs, the kitchen was crowded, but other than the occasional muttered word, no one spoke, the tension preventing anything in the way of conversation. The only noise was of the dozen people in the room checking their weapons, the placing of ammunition in barrels and magazines, the clicks of safety catches, and a few nervous coughs. The room was diffused with the smells of gun oil and coffee: on the stove, two large moka pots were brewing.